


Nectar and Ambrosia

by ashkazora



Series: Ashka's Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Canon Divergence, Gen, Imprisonment, Lance (Voltron) Whump, Whump, canonverse, clone!shiro, denied food as punishment, s6 divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:13:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23286064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkazora/pseuds/ashkazora
Summary: He was alone.Again.With nothing but the pain to keep him company.“Red…” Lance whispered in the darkness of his cell, his voice breaking from the lack of use. “I- I’m sorry…”-Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: denied food as punishment
Relationships: Kuron & Lance (Voltron)
Series: Ashka's Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674655
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68





	Nectar and Ambrosia

**Author's Note:**

> yooo what's up! This is my first thing written for my Bad Things Happen Bingo card! If you want to request something from it, head over to my Tumblr (ashkazora). 
> 
> This was requested by cheesensomecrackers on Tumblr.
> 
> Anyways, onto the fic! This is definitely one of the more tamer (and shorter) things I'll be writing for my BTHB card.
> 
> -
> 
> Timeline notes: takes place in season 6, pre-clone fiasco.

It came in waves, the pain.

The agony would flare up like knives stabbing into his stomach, with each passing second the blades sinking deeper and deeper and deeper. Concentrated in his stomach region, it would radiate out until he could feel nothing but _pain_. And then, without warning, someone would grip the hilt of the invisible knife and yank it out of his body. A temporary relief, a momentary kindness, only for the knife to be plunged again, only this time more brutally than the last.

His body was curled up in the corner of the room, arms hugging his body to try and do _something_ to alleviate all of the hurt that shot through him. At least the pain was grounding. He felt like he couldn’t concentrate on anything else, couldn’t think back to _why_ he was here, alone and shivering in a barren, purple-tinted room with only a heavy iron door and the pain to keep him company. Why his neck had a thin metal circle digging into the skin, why he was only wearing blue boardshorts with small cerulean lions on it despite the frigid temperature.

Why he was alone in the almost-darkness, abandoned by everyone he called a friend.

Lance would’ve laughed if the action didn’t send more pinpricks of hurt down his abdomen. The isolation almost felt more bitter than anything else. Loverboy Lance, the extroverted paladin, the _loudmouth,_ all alone with no one coming to save him.

He should have seen it coming.

There was so many signs, little things that should have raised a million red flags but never did. Too many things did Team Voltron turn they other eye to.

And now it was too late.

Lance had been swimming on that fateful day.

Sometimes when his thoughts got a bit too loud and the Castle too quiet, he spent his time swimming laps up and down the Castle of Lions’ pool. It sounded him, helped him think about things. When it was just him and the water, everything felt just a little simpler, as if the weights of a millennium-old war no longer rested on his shoulders. The release was every part cathartic and methodical, and once Lance had spent hours tiring his body and mind then everything felt a little more okay.

Little did he know that during his hours of exercise, Pidge had made a discovery. Good old Pidge, someone who’s hunger for knowledge and answers could barely be contained in her petite body, had been combing over past healing pod reports in a bid to triple-check for any unexpected illnesses. What she found, Lance would never know. He had walked into the med bay, still sopping wet from the pool with only blue boardshorts and a towel around his neck as cover, trying to find some space Panadol for his overworked muscles and aching back. (Even after all these months, the scar he got from fake Rover _still_ hurt).

Instead, all he found was the prone body of Pidge laying in a pool of her own blood, with a twisted, golden-eyed version of Shiro standing over him. The image of her eyes still open, still glassy as blood tickled from her mouth would haunt him forever. The only thing Lance remembered after that was his scream, and a bright purple hand reaching across his neck.

Then, nothing.

His memories were completely wiped out from there on out. He could only recall briefly waking up in a crimson-lit cockpit, muzzled and chained like a rabid dog, before coming back to his senses in the cramped Galra cell.

On the first day, Shiro- no, _Not-Shiro_ — that monster could _never_ be the person he called his hero — explained to him what happened. Though Lance suspected he was only getting a twisted version of the truth, the story he had been fed was that Not-Shiro had taken him and only him from Team Voltron into Galran ‘salvation’ (read: _prison_ ).

From then on out, Not-Shiro would visit him once a day: sometimes bringing water, never bringing food.

The hunger seeped into Lance’s bones soon after.

_God_ , he was so hungry. Lance had never thought that one-day food goo would look so appetising. He’d kill for just one mouthful of that jiggly paste - hell, even Nunvill would be like ambrosia to his starved body. Never had Lance been able to look down at himself and count every single rib.

He could feel himself wasting away, his body slowly eating at himself. And the only thing left to fill the gaps of broken-down muscle was _pain._ Pure, raw agony.

Through the moisture blurring his vision, Lance saw the thick metal door open for the first time in what felt to be days. He almost didn’t see the figure walk in, yet intense darkness shadowing from behind them knocked him out of his pain-centred focused.

Once upon a time, maybe, the person would’ve been someone the blue paladin felt comfort in. Their large stature, even taller than Lance’s father, mixed with soft eyes and a determined expression always encouraged Lance to be the best that he could be. Where Shiro - the actual Shiro - was warmth and talent and smiles hidden behind thinly-veiled exasperation, the clone was a frigid mess of menacing glares and cold touches.

“Lance.”

Lance flinched. Not-Shiro’s voice was so familiar yet so _different_. Where Shiro had been resolute yet comforting like the older brother you never had, this _thing_ , this clone, sounded leonine and cold, his purrs sharper than a razor and none too comforting. Shiro’s warmth was replaced a frigid bite that lit up every neutron in Lance’s brain with a primal fear.

Prowling closer, the clone stalked towards him like a lion hunting its prey. Lance had to stop himself from flinching back — Not-Shiro didn't like it when he did. He felt a bolt of terror spike down his spine as the clone leans down on one knee, barely an inch away from his prone body.

Out of the blue, Not-Shiro took his hand - his human hand - and gripped Lance’s tanned chin, pulling the blue paladin’s face up to meet his eyes. Lance felt himself lean into the warmth of his hand despite everything; Not-Shiro’s skin was warmer than anything Lance had experienced for _so long._

“You’re cold.” The clone said.

It was less of a question and more of a statement. Lance couldn't find the energy to pull away or scream at his former teammate, only the pathetic sound of an aborted sob escaped his lips. Not-Shiro looked down at him with an expression Lance couldn't place; pity, maybe, or was it disgust? Before Shiro went missing it a lot easier to read his face. Now, he was murkier than a muddier puddle.

In another almost robotic movement, Not-Shiro lifted his prosthetic hand and pulled his synthetic fingers through Lance’s greasy curls. The motion was so familiar yet so foreign, it made Lance want to cry and puke at the same time. Memories of his mother rushed through his mind — her carding through his hair whenever he felt down and mumbling melodic Spanish lullabies as he cried into her shoulder. That life was merely a speck in the distant past, now.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Lance. You know that.” Not-Shiro’s Galra-yellow eyes continued to stare down at him, betraying no emotion, his fingers still brushing through the other’s hair. “We _need_ you, Lance. I _need_ you. All you need to do is submit. Can you do that for me?”

Lance sobbed again. How ironic was it that the first time that someone actually _wanted_ him, it was for all the wrong reasons.

Without warning, the clone’s cosy, pale hand left his chin, Lance almost whimpering at the loss. It had been _so long_ since someone touched him without an intent to hurt. Not-Shiro’s prosthetic was still in his hair, no longer dragging through his curls but holding Lance’s head up by his hair. The twinge of his hair pulling at the roots made his eyes water, but the pain was nothing compared to the compounding cacophony of hunger and agony in his stomach.

Though the warmth didn’t reappear, Not-Shiro’s hand darted into his pocket and retrieved a small pouch from inside. Even in the dim lighting, Lance could see a familiar silvery shine to the packaging. Suddenly he felt just how sandpaper-like his mouth had become, absolutely parched with the lack of sufficient refreshments. He must have stared at the pouch longingly because Not-Shiro chuckled lowly at his expression. The musing would have looked fond if not for his blank yellow eyes contorting the clone’s face into something more sinister.

In one quick motion, Not-Shiro ripped the top of the pouch off with his oddly sharp teeth. Lance softly moaned as few stray drops of the liquid spill to the ground, the dewy smell of water invading his senses and making his mouth water. Instinctively, Lance’s lips parted slightly, ever so used to the conditioning of the routine.

“ _Nuh-uh-uh_ , not so fast.” Not-Shiro tutted, and every hope of Lance dignity remaining intact drained from him. He held the open pouch only a couple inches from Lance’s face - so close yet so far away. The grip on his hair made it impossible to lean forward grab it in his teeth.

How long had it been since he had drunk something? A day? Two days? Brief memories of the Garrison’s mandatory survival lessons flashed past Lance’s eyes. Humans could survive three hours without shelter, three days without water, and three weeks without food. Time was hard to keep track of in the cell, especially when all of his energy was focused on the pain, though Lance was sure it had been more than a day since he’d had something - anything - to drink.

“You know the drill, Lance.” The clone’s sinister smile grew wider and wider. Lance had to choke back a few more sobs before he could even begin to answer. What would the team say if they saw him like this? A pathetic, blubbering mess, too weak even to fight back. They’d be ashamed of him.

“P— please.” He managed to say, his voice sore and cracking. Lance opened his mouth to plead more, but only a garbled moan released from his lungs. Despite his pitiful display, the clone nodded in satisfaction and brought the hydration patch to Lance’s lips. Slowly, his head was tipped back; Lance almost cried as water started to trickle down his throat.

Lapping at it greedily, he could taste the sweet nectar in his mouth. All the stabbing, aching pains momentarily subsided into something more muted and controlled. It was like a drug, the water, a painkiller stronger than morphine. In the back of his mind, Lance noticed the clone’s fingers rubbing his head. It would have been comforting if anyone else did it but in the dark Galran cells, the motion served to only further dehumanise. The comment made Lance feel dirty like he was merely a plaything to be tossed around and manipulated by whoever deemed fit. 

“You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?” Not-Shiro murmured, continuing to pet the blue paladin as he drunk. Almost too soon did the flow of water cut off, the amount not nearly enough to sate the unquenchable thirst in his throat. Nonetheless, Lance felt better than he had in days. He whimpered softly as the clone pulled the empty pouch away. Not-Shiro’s flesh hand didn’t return to his chin, instead, the prosthetic’s grip grew harsher and harsher in Lance's hair until the blue paladin could almost feel his hair being pulled from their follicles. Ducking his head down to be eye-level with Lance, the clone’s blank, yellow sclera glowed brighter. “Call the Red Lion, Lance.”

“I- I c-…can’t.” Every word felt like Lance was swallowing glass. A small part of him still wanted to do anything to please Shiro, to prove himself to the one he called his hero.

The clone sighed. “You’re making this too hard on yourself. I know you’re hungry, Lance, you can eat as soon as you call on Red Lion. Activate her for us.”

At the mention of food, Lance whimpered again. God, he was _starving_. There were times in his life where he’d gone without food, when life wasn’t kind to his family or when he was too hyper-focused in school work, but never more than a day. Not once was any morsel of nourishments given to him here. Not even a crumb. How long had it been since the last time he ate? A week, perhaps, give or take a few days. Time flowed strangely in isolation, especially when he had nothing but pain as a distraction.

“Don’t you understand?” Not-Shiro continued, his breath hot on Lance’s face, “The others don’t see you the way I do, do they? To them you’re _worthless_ , a placeholder for Keith and Allura. But here you’ll be cherished, you know that.”

“N-no... You’re wrong-“ Frigid insecurity stabbed at Lance as a grin spread across the man’s face.

“Am I? Voltron didn’t care about you, they haven’t even bothered searching for you. You’ve been _replaced_."

_No, that couldn’t be right!_ But with every word, another bullet of doubt shot through him. Voltron needed him, didn’t they? The real Shiro was _gone_ and Lance was the only one who could fill that hole. Or was he?

Did the clone have a point? Was no one really coming for him?

Lance’s eyes grew warm as something splashed on the ground. The _pit-patter_ of tears echoed throughout the otherwise heavy silence, spilling much-needed water onto the floor. Lance let the clone’s words sink in.

“Oh Lance, what are you holding on to?” Suddenly, Not-Shiro’s prosthetic let go of its deathly tight grip on his hair and the boy fell to the ground with a thump, not having enough energy to brace his fall. Pain radiated from where his chin bounced onto the floor, yet another bruise to add to the collection. “Who defended you when you were blamed for something not your fault? Who listened to you instead of brushing you off? Keith abandoned you, Hunk found someone better. Pidge never cared, and all you were to Allura was a _useless flirt_."

_The clone was right._

“S- stop… please…” Lance croaked out. He didn’t want to go through an assault on his insecurities, however true it may be.

Not-Shiro shook his head.

“Let go, Lance, from this pitiful attachment to the ones that never even liked you. Voltron is holding you back from greatness. If you can’t see that, well…” He trailed off. With a feline-like finesse Lance never knew the clone possessed, Not-Shiro stood up in one graceful, methodical motion, turning towards the door. “For your sake, I truly hope that when I come back, you’ll submit.”

With a final, leering grin that sent shivers down Lance’s spine, the clone unlocked the cell’s opening, sauntering through it with a swagger of power and dominance.

“W-wait, no!” Lance yelled at the closing door, his heart hammering inside his chest. “Shiro! Come back! _Please_ …”

But the clone didn’t turn around, and once again Lance was plunged into darkness. Laying sprawled on the ground, he could feel his sobs vibrating in the ground. Hunger gnawed at his belly, the intensity of the pain growing exponentially with each passing second. That’s all that filled his mind; the weakness in his limbs and the emptiness of his stomach.

He was alone.

_Again._

With nothing but the pain to keep him company.

“Red…” Lance whispered in the darkness of his cell, his voice breaking from the lack of use. “I- I’m sorry…”

Lance curled up in a foetal position, tanned hands gripping his stomach to try and stop the thousands of glacial needles stabbing into his abdomen. “It _hurts_."

**Author's Note:**

> CONTEXT: This is a canon divergence in s6 where Pidge accidentally find something wrong with Shiro('s clone) earlier, but the clone figures out the she knows something, and attacks her. Lance who witnesses it is knocked out, and the clone is forced to flee the castle. He takes Lance with him in the Red Lion and one Lance wakes up, tries to persuade him to join the Galra. 
> 
> -
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Please leave a comment if you liked it! Your words and feedback fuels me to write more. 
> 
> Feel free to check out [my Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ashkazora) where I post mostly vld things and ramble about whatever. 
> 
> See you guys next time xx


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